Answer Me
by hctiB-notsoB
Summary: Carlton/Shawn WARNING: character death, serious angsty themes and mild insanity, I suppose. "His self-isolation makes hell look more like heaven with every passing day."


**WARNING:** for character death and angsty themes.

* * *

_"Hey Shawn, it's me."_

He wasn't crying. He doesn't cry. Spencer men don't cry. His cheeks were just wet. They weren't tears, they were just wet.

Because he does not cry.

For possibly the first time in his life, Shawn was still. They kept saying it was shock, that it would fade eventually. That he'd come to accept it and he'd move on. Shawn didn't think he'd be moving anywhere for quite a while. Every step that he took outside this home, their home, it felt like walking on glass. He wasn't going to leave. They kept trying to make him leave; leave his sanctuary, his hell. They couldn't make him, he wasn't going to leave. He'll just sit here and not cry, and they couldn't do a damn thing about it.

_"Listen, I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to make it in time for dinner."_

His dad had said that it would be alright. He sat on the floor of a hospital hallway while his father held him and said that everything would be alright. And he'd lied.

All his life, his dad was always the one to be brutally honest, the one person he could trust to always tell the truth. And he'd lied.

Shawn's still not sure why that had hurt so much, but it had. Because even while he looked at the drops of blood that had spilt off of the gurney, Shawn had known it was a lie. Still, he'd trusted his dad to tell the truth. Call it a lingering moment of childish optimism, or naivety, or denial, but he'd trusted his father.

_"We got a call about some activity by the habor outside of town."_

His dad had to get up after twenty minutes, because kneeling hurt his knees and he wanted to call Gus. He was sure Gus could help Shawn better than he could. But Shawn stayed where he was on the floor and watched the drops of blood on the pristine white tiles. He almost expected them to start rolling across the floor to join the body they'd left. They didn't leave, though. At least, not on their own like Shawn imagined they would.

A passing janitor mopped them up with out a second thought, and Shawn stared in horror as the drops were taken away by a bushel of dirty threads on a piece of wood. Mopped up like it was some child's spilt soda instead of his love's life. The man, more of a boy really, some pimple-faced teenager, didn't even look at Shawn as he swept the red droplets away and turned the white tiles pristine again.

He didn't even look as he swept them away.

_"The description of a car outside the warehouse matches the one from the Donelley case, so the chief wants me to go along."_

It wasn't suppose to happen this way; why the hell doesn't life stick to the script? They were suppose to grow old together, going on fishing trips with Shawn complaining the whole time.

Or at least go out together in a blaze of glory. Like in the movies, like in 'Die Hard' or some other action flic. Where the hero and sub-hero, with Shawn being the hero of course, dying together from vicious battle wounds that they were miraculously able to withstand until the bad guys were beat. Then they fall down in the middle of the street and slip away together, with someone's car still on fire in the background and help arriving just too late to save them.

Personally, Shawn likes the first option better, but the second one would be cool too. Just not like this. Not with him still here, still alive. Still alone.

_"It's probably nothing, but just in case, leave some of that Sweet N' Sour chicken in the oven for me, ok?"_

They keep saying he needs to move on, he needs to live, he needs to get better. He needs them to just go away.

For Christ's sake, it's only been three weeks. But when he turns that number over in his head, that amount of time didn't seem so short before. Three weeks detention in school seemed like forever. Three weeks 'till his birthday when he was a kid seemed like three hundred years. Three weeks until the divorce was over seemed like three years in hell. Three weeks in the summer at his Aunt Mary's house with her stinking cabbage at every supper...

So why did three weeks since his death pass by in the blink of an eye? Because his death was suppose to do something, mean something. The Earth wasn't suppose to keep spinning, it should have stopped. People should have stopped and realized that something was seriously wrong with the world now.

Because without him, time doesn't exsist.

_"If I'm home too late, I'll wake you up as soon as I get home, I promise."_

Shawn doesn't answer the phone any more, because he knows it'll just be them. Just like it's always them knocking on the door. They want to make sure he's still alive; and he can't help but let out a hollow laugh every time they ask. But he answers them at the door from time to time, to make sure they don't get desperate enough to penetrate his sanctuary, his hell.

Not the phone though, never the phone.

He's not sure why he keeps the message on the answering machine, because he knows it'll never change. It's in his memory forever now, has been since the first time he heard it that night. He can go back and he can remember with perfect clearity. The tone of his voice, the inflection of his speech, the rumble of his chest as he spoke. Shawn can remember everything.

But remembering isn't the same as hearing.

_"I love you."_


End file.
